


Alvarez Household

by A_lee_us



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Assassination plot, Butler!Jordon, Chauffeur!Jorel, Chef!George, Domestic, Family-themed, Field Medic!Jorel, Gen, Gun Fight, Housekeeper!Danny, Marine!George, Marine!Jordon, Richman!Dylan, Security Team, Sniper!Danny, Snipers, Spies, Thriller, badassery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_lee_us/pseuds/A_lee_us
Summary: Dylan Alvarez is a richman's son with four servants who are also his best friends.'Xcept that he doesn't realise that he is in danger of being assassinated. Luckily, his servants-cum-friends are prepared and ready to protect him at all costs.





	Alvarez Household

**Author's Note:**

> PROPS to you if you figured out what inspired this! I read Kuroshitsuji when I was 10 or 11. Though it was years back, I suddenly had an urge to write this. Not really proof-read but it should be good to go.
> 
> Also, this is not part of the American Tragedy series for reasons.
> 
> I've applied for the national college-prep institute and I hope I'll get in. Wish me luck.

Our story begins in a beautiful land with rising, crystalline skyscrapers and twinkling architecture. The city where we are starting off could be paved with gold - wealthy, home to the most affluent, with beautiful lawns, impeccable riches and penthouses. 

 

Dylan Alvarez was no exception as a resident of Holliwood. His family occupied five storeys of the Wisteria skyscraper. It was an architectural beauty - swirling turrets rising from the ground, sparkling when the sunlight struck it. Polished windows reflected light onto neighbouring buildings. Only the wealthier of the wealthy could afford to stay there. 

 

Dylan had the entire penthouse to himself. The rest of his family occupied their own floors below and they would meet at the 89th storey for family time.

 

His living space was a well-lit, spacious area filled with tasteful artwork and branded furniture. Light filtered through the transition glass windows, kissing the impeccably-clean varnished wooden floors. Plush couches adorned the living room, a large plasma flat-screened TV atop a designer cabinet. Glass displays of art collectables rose from the ground, lit up by glaring trail lights. 

 

Fleece carpets decked the grounds, the marble finishing were polished, bamboo blinds wiped down. 

 

Affluence could not be more described by than a picture of the Dylan Alvarez’s home. 

 

And while his house was stuffed full of expensive, tasteful furniture, it was not staffed quite the same. 

 

“JOREL!” George’s voice boomed from the kitchen, an irritated growl. Jorel’s responding laughter echoed around the airy high ceilings.

 

“Yo, what happened?” Jordon entered the kitchen, a grin on his face as he took another swig of whiskey from his glass, leaning against the frosted glass door in a way that pissed George off.

 

George shot a sharp glare at Jordon. “You,” he barked, “off!”

 

Jordon relented, pulling away from the door and propping himself on the counter. George groaned but didn't comment. “What'd Jorel do?” Jordon asked curiously. 

 

George snorted, slamming a platter of tea biscuits and fancy pastries onto the counter. “Fucking asshole stole a smoked salmon tea snack. The dick knows Dylan likes those the most.”

 

Jordon barely blinked. “Just bake Master Dylan a space cake or something, Chef Ragan. He’d love it more than any of your salmon-whateverthefuckyoucallit.”

 

The larger man narrowed his eyes, grouchy but not disagreeing. He reached over a swiped the glass of whiskey from the butler. “You shouldn't be drinking this early in the day. It’s irresponsible and unprofessional for your job as a butler.”

 

“You take your job way too seriously for a chef,” Jordon responded, leaning forward to grab his glass back, “Give that bac-”

 

“Guys?”

 

Both males snapped up from their little squabble to see Danny, in all bleached-haired glory, peering into the kitchen, past the frosted glass door, a bemused look was on his face.

 

“Master Dylan is asking for his tea - might the butler please serve it?” He asked, eyeing Jordon, who received a harsh nudge from George.

 

George grabbed the crystal flower-engraved platter, loaded with assorted trimmed sandwiches and little pastries arranged into pairs - and one pair was clearly missing its counterpart.

 

With a grin, Jordon hefted the platter up onto one hand and stole one of the salmon pastries, shoving the entire thing into his mouth. He chewed quickly, giving a mischievous smile to George, who stared at him, jaw slackened in horror.

 

“JORDON!” George hollered.

 

Jordon swallowed and stuck his tongue out. “Dyl will never notice now.”

 

Danny laughed, amused, from the door; and spun away to continue his housekeeping duties.George sighed, muttering angrily as he turned to start cleaning up the dishes. With a proud shit-eating grin, Jordon whisked out of the kitchen and waltzed into Dylan’s bedroom.

 

The room was huge. Full-length windows shone light into the spacious room, high ceilings and all. A large canopy bed - feather mattresses, brass frame, silken curtains - spread out in the centre of the room. A cavernous wardrobe towered in one corner of the room. Colourful skateboards lined a wall, held up by elaborate shelvings. Cove lights, switched off for the day, were the final touches.

 

Dylan was lounging in bed, using his phone. His hair had been pulled into two pigtails - which Jordon suspected Danny had a hand in doing. He looked up when he heard Jordon enter.

 

“Jordon, my man, come look at this girl’s Instagram that I found.”

 

Jordon laughed and quickly placed the platter of snacks onto the bedside table before climbing onto the luxurious bed that was Dylan’s.

 

Of course, no other rich person would allow their butler - or servants - to be so friendly with them, or come into their personal space. But Dylan’s best friends were his servants. 

 

They worked for him, but they also had fun with him. Movie nights in front of his over-sized flatscreen TV was fun, and so was joy-riding with Jorel.

 

“Look,” Dylan insisted, shoving the phone before Jordon’s face. Jordon peered at the screen, swiping through some photos.

 

“Whooo damn,” The butler responded, eyes shooting up, “That’s a nice rack.”

 

Dylan laughed in agreement, settling back in his fat, feather-stuffed pillows, chucking his phone over his head. It landed with a soft thump atop more goose-feathered pillows.

 

Jordon checked the time on his wrist watch. “There’s two more hours till that gala. Do you want to get ready now?”

 

A muffled groan came from the pillows in response. Dylan rolled over and faced his friend. “Do I have to go?” He whined, dropping his face to give puppy-dog eyes. Jordon groaned in response, reached over to Dylan... and smacked him with a pillow.

 

“Yes. It is good for your rep. Now go get dressed. What style did you want to go with today?”

 

Dylan sat up, hugging the pillow that had smacked him in the face. He hunched over, pretending to think hard. His mouth twisted into a mock frown and he furrowed his eyebrows, looking far too serious to actually be serious. “Hmm, I wonder.”

 

“Dyl, be serious.”

 

Dylan sighed. “I guess I’d wanna wear that Italian suit that Jorel recommended me the last time but I don’t know where it is. After Danny packed up and reorganised my wardrobe, I haven’t been able to find it.” Dylan puckered his lip and traced a tear down his face, “And I’m sad.”

 

Jordon snorted. “Y’know, it’s just hanging in the laundry room.”

 

He was floored by a heavy weight suddenly launching onto him. Dylan had tackled him in a hug and was laughing as he jokingly exclaimed: “My hero!”

 

“This is so ga- gerroff!”

 

“Guys?” Jorel appeared at the door, in a smart tuxedo. He looked genuinely confused but slightly amused. 

 

“Hi, Jorel! We’re not having any homosexual relations!” Dylan exclaimed to which Jordon snorted and shoved him off.

 

Jorel’s eyebrow raised. “Well, if you say so,” he responded, his tone amused, “I was just checking - what car d’you want driven to the gala? The BMW is still at maintenance so that’s out, though.”

 

“You’re the chauffeur - you choose!” Dylan yelled while Jordon shouted, muffled by the quilt, “Just drive the damn Mercedes.”

 

The driver shook his head and rolled his eyes before turning on heel to leave. “The Merc. it is, then. 6pm at the pickup point, okay?” He didn’t wait for a response and disappeared, footsteps clacking away on the varnished floor.

 

Dylan flopped onto the bed, moaning loudly. Jordon arched an eyebrow before jokingly throwing himself onto the other, plowing a pillow into the Mexican’s face. Muffled shots from the male below him and thrashing legs eventually threw him off. Dylan rose, hair a wild nest. He pointed at Jordon accusingly, “My own butler tried to smother me!”

 

Jordon chucked the pillow at him.

 

“Get dressed,” was all he said before he climbed off the bed and vanished out of the door.

 

-

 

“Danny!”

 

The housekeeper looked up from his ironing. He set the heavy iron down on the board and straightened out the silk trousers laid across it, before turning to face Jordon who had burst into the laundry room.

 

Jordon had a coat hanger with a white dress shirt on it, as well as a stylish leather coat. He thrusted both in Danny’s direction - the housekeeper stumbling back a little as his arms were suddenly filled with material. “Get these ironed and pressed by 5, yeah, Danny-boy?” Jordon instructed. He barely waited for a response before he was twirling out of the door, on the way to make more arrangements.

 

“And!” Jordon called as he disappeared out of the door, “Make sure the Italian loafers are polished!”

 

Danny groaned and chucked the newly-added pieces of clothing onto a table. He picked up the iron and worked away, ironing out the creases on the silk trousers that he had previously been working on.

 

Working at the Alvarez household was mundane on daily basis. As a housekeeper, he was often tasked with a lot of menial tasks such as cooking, washing and cleaning. Not that he was complaining - the pay and environment was totally worth it. He liked working in the Alvarez household - the master was a good, friendly guy and the other servants were fun and great to be around.

 

Especially George. George was a silent intellectual - reading in his free time, musing quietly and observing without a word. He was insanely intelligent and philosophical but he also knew how to have a great time. At the last party-

 

Fuck.

 

Danny set the iron down once more, growling. He swiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, formed by the warmth of the steam.

 

The silk pants’ button had come loose, dangling from the waistband by a thread. He groaned and turned to rifle through the needlework box set on the table next to him for thread and a needle. He soon found both, deft fingers threading the needle and sewing the button firmly back in place.

 

With a satisfied smile, he quickly turned to pack up when a flash from a window caught his eye.

 

He dashed over to it, staring out at the adjacent skyscraper through the crystal-clear windows. Cars crawled on the streets far below.

 

There it was again - a glimmer of light coming from one of the windows. It was not unlike that of the sudden reflection of light off a glass surface - or lens. Danny, with narrowed eyes, caught sight of a dark figure backing away from the window quickly. In a second, he was gone.

 

The housekeeper sighed, whipping out his mobile phone. Two rings later, Jorel picked up.

 

 _“Hey?”_ Jorel’s voice came over.

 

Danny pressed his forehead against the glass, eyes tracking the opposite windows, searching for further signs of movement. There was nothing.

 

“Check out floor 89 of the _Greenleigh_ building for me. Possible danger to Master Dylan. Currently nothing’s suspicious.”

 

There was a pause before Jorel responded, rapt at attention.

 

_”Okay. Taking George with me. Will inform Jordon. Keep Master Dylan away from windows.”_

 

Danny nodded though Jorel couldn’t see him. With a short ‘understood’ muttered back to Jorel, he hung up with a click. Pocketing his phone, he turned back to his ironing, diligently pressing the creases out of the silk pants.

 

-

 

“But does this make my _butt_ look good?”

 

“I swear to God, Dyl, you better make up your mind because I’m gonna walk out soon.”

 

Jordon had received a short text to Jorel, informing him of a minor uninvestigated threat. It was a daily thing - while they were not attending to their regular household duties, they were hunting for suspicious activity around Dylan Alvarez. After all, Dylan Alvarez was the son of a wealthy Mexican businessman, with a net worth nearing ten billion dollars. 

 

There was a definite constant threat to Dylan’s safety, though it was kept at bay by the servants working in his home.

 

“But _Jordy_ ,” Dylan whined, holding up two pairs of pressed black pants, “I might want to impress some social elite girl tonight, y’know?”

 

Jordon rolled his eyes.

 

“Yes, yes, but they both look the same!” The butler insisted.

 

“Same so do both make my butt look good?”

 

“For fuck’s sake - yes!”

 

Dylan crowed, laughing. “I knew you checked out other dudes’ butts!”

 

Jordon tapped his foot impatiently, glancing at his wristwatch. The time read 5.45 pm. They were to meet Jorel at the pick-up-point in 15 minutes and Dylan was still stuck choosing a pair of pants.

 

“Just put them on,” Jordon ushered his boss towards the bathroom. Dylan allowed himself to be herded in, still laughing, both pairs of pants in hand.

 

 _Buzz_.

 

Jordon waited till the bathroom door swung shut, then he pulled out his phone. It was another text from Jorel.

 

_Checked out Greenleigh building with George. Nothing suspicious. Will pick up Dyl in 10._

 

Jordon texted back a quick: _ok_ , before slipping his device back into his pocket.

 

As servants of Dylan Alvarez, they were to serve him to their fullest potential, ensuring his comfort. Each of them were good at their job - George was a reknown chef, Jorel a once-popular driver. On top of that, each were also trained in various institutions for security. And all of them were responsible for the safety of Dylan - not that the young master knew anything about his servants being secret-ass-kicking agents.

 

Hired by the big boss Mister Alvarez himself, all four servants played the roles of best friends, attendants and security agents to Dylan. And they took their job very seriously.

 

“Jordon!” Dylan called from inside the bathroom, voice muffled by the thick frosted glass door, “What time is it?”

 

Jordon yelled back, “It’s time for you to hurry your ass up! Jorel’s coming in 10!”

 

-

 

Jorel, as promised, pulled up at the pick-up-point in a shiny, polished Mercedes Benz. He was dressed smartly in a neat black suit and sunglasses, and he had ditched his cap. 

Jordon helped a dressed Dylan into the back seats of the vehicle before climbing into the passenger’s seat next to Jorel.

 

The door swung shut and, with a smooth purr, the Benz took off.

 

Jorel laid back, steering with ease and grace. He was a veteran driver, navigating various cars and roads effortlessly.

 

“So, any plans for the gala tonight?” Jorel asked, leaning back and glancing at Dylan.

 

Dylan grinned and winked. “I’m gonna find myself one of those prissy high-class girls and see if they’ll smoke a blunt.” He patted his breast pocket. A rustle of plastic sounded. 

Jorel laughed and looked back to the road.

 

“As per normal,” Jorel announced, “I’ll be parked in the car park. Call me whenever you want a lift back. I’ll pick you up from the same place I’ll drop you off.”

 

“Sure thing,” Dylan settled back against the leather seats, pulling out his phone.

 

Jordon had been watching the road carefully. A few glances in the rear-view mirror, unnoticed by Dylan, showed flashes of a bright-red motorcycle tailing them, several vehicles behind. The motorcyclist was doing a good job on keeping close to them while remaining unseen, weaving skillfully in and out of traffic.

 

Though the motorist’s face was concealed by an equally bright red helmet, Jordon knew that it was none other than Danny, who - without Dylan’s knowledge - was accompanying them to provide extra security services if needed. Jordon wondered if Jorel had already driven George to the venue beforehand.

 

“Dr. Leonard’s son will be at the party tonight. Tony Leonard. A tall, buff guy.” Jordon said outloud, glancing into the rearview mirror to watch Dylan’s reaction, “Your father expects you to be his acquaintance. Hopefully it’d pave way for future relations between the Leonard-Erlichman Biotech. Labs and your father’s company.”

 

Dylan grunted in response.

 

Jordon took that as a sound of understanding and settled back against the seat for the rest of the ride.

 

-

 

The gala was in full-swing. A live jazz band with a curvy, attractive singer, played lively music. Guests, all decked out in tasteful jewellery and expensive outfits, graced the room. Some stood around, backs straight, mouths curved into amiable smiles, fingers grasping exquisite wine glasses. Others strolled with their partners, heavy purses swinging.

 

Jordon stood back as he watched Dylan mingle professionally with reputable faces in the crowd. His charge was good at interactions with others: a charming smile on his face and a good sense of humour were amongst some of his attractive features.

 

Studying the venue, Jordon relaxed. Security was relatively decent there - bags had been checked at the entrance and there weren’t an unnecessary number of windows. The few glass walls were bulletproofed and sturdy.

 

Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, glinting in the warm lights. Brass ornaments shone, meticulously polished. The whole place boomed _grand_.

 

Jordon spotted Danny, loitering unnoticed, ignored, leaning against a wall, a flute of champagne in hand. His blond head was ducked, low, trying to remain unnoticed. Though he appeared to be very engrossed in his book that lay opened in a palm, Jordon could see that the other male’s eyes were warily darting from left to right behind his aviator glasses.

 

He nodded, turning back to watch Dylan.

 

Danny was on the watch, too, and he could relax a little bit.

 

“Hey, Jordon,” Dylan returned to his side, a glass of white wine in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. He pressed the champagne into Jordon’s hand while speaking, 

 

“Could you play wingman for me?”

 

Jordon took a long sip from the dainty glassware. “Are you bribing me with alcohol?”

 

Dylan gave him a bedazzling smile. “Guilty!” He laughed.

 

Jordon sighed, moving the glass away from his lips. He scanned the room, trying to identify who had caught Dylan’s interest. “So, who’re you trying to hook up with?” He asked, seeing no young, attractive maiden. Most of the women were married and older, clutching onto the arms of their wealthy partners. As far as he could see, there was no girl around Dylan’s age.

 

Dylan gave him a guilty smile before pointing discreetly at a skinny young male, dressed smartly in a white tuxedo. He had a bright smile on his face and was talking awkwardly but cheerfully with a group of older business-like men. 

 

Jordon’s eyebrows shot up as he observed the guy who had caught Dylan’s eye. “You’re nailing dudes now?”

 

Dylan had a sheepish look on his face. “No,” he said, lowly, “Not really. It’s just… that guy has a stunning smile, y’know?”

 

As a professional butler, Jordon had learnt to readily accept things quickly and proceed. Otherwise known as fuck it and roll with it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke, 

 

“So, how can I help?”

 

“Is he gay?”

 

“How the fuck would I know if he’s gay?”

 

“Does he _look_ gay?”

 

Jordon made an exasperated sound, taking another long drink from his glass. He turned to look at Dylan seriously in the eye, trying to convey his thoughts on how utterly ridiculous Dylan’s request was via the power of telepathy. Though, he was sure that all he was achieving was glaring daggers into the other male.

 

“Dylan, why don’t you talk to him?”

 

“His name is Aron. Is Aron a gay name?”

 

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

 

“Y’know,” Dylan explained slowly, as though Jordon had to be stupid, “Gay names. Like Brandon, Ethan, _Charlie_.”

 

Jordon grimaced. He sighed, eyes wandering back to the skinny man. He wasn’t particularly attractive but he could sort-of see the charm that he could possess. He did have a cute sort of insecurity, holding himself awkwardly but honestly. He also had a brilliant smile, sincere and humorous.

 

“Could you help me find out if he’s gay?” Dylan pleaded.

 

Jordon sighed, relenting. “Whatever,” he muttered.

 

Dylan pecked him on the cheek - which Jordon batted away harshly. “Thank you! You’re the best butler ever!”

 

“I better get a pay raise,” Jordon groused and Dylan pretended not to hear him.

 

Stepping up towards the loose gangle of men, Jordon straightened his jacket and smoothed back his hair. He cleared his throat and approached them, slipping easily into the group with a friendly smile and easy voice. “Good evening, fellas,” he greeted, beaming.

 

The surrounding men welcomed him into the group, observing him curiously but with well-mannered respect. They were mostly forty-year-olds with greying hair and age spots. 

 

The skinny male - Aron - was noticeably younger.

 

“Good evening…” one of the men trailed off, hand extended for a shake, waiting expectantly for Jordon to introduce himself.

 

Jordon shook the man’s hand firmly. “Busek. Matthew Busek,” he responded.

 

“You don’t look much like a Matthew,” Aron noted, eyes twinkling cheekily as he sized up Jordon. Jordon simply beamed back.

 

‘Matthew Busek’ had been his alias for a long time, and rarely had anybody commented on the choice of name. Aron was slightly more inutitive than he had thought. He sized the lanky male up before determining that Dylan would absolutely _love_ the dude.

 

“That’s a pity, then,” Jordon said easily.

 

It wasn’t long before they had launched into a discussion about Bitcoins and the mining of it. Throughout the lively conversation, Jordon learnt a few things about the male. And he also obtained very important information that Dylan would love to hear.

 

“So,” Jordon siddled up next to Dylan, having left his new acquaintances, “Here’s the good news! Aron Erlichman dated Anthony Leonard before!”  
Dylan’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“I was gonna complain that you took forever to chat with them but I’ll keep it because that’s _great_ to hear! What’s the bad news?”

 

“The bad news is that you _still_ need to talk to Tony Leonard tonight as your father requested. That means I’m cockblocking you till you speak to him.”

 

Dylan groaned despairingly and Jordon grinned.

 

A flash of movement caught his eye. Over Dylan’s shoulder, he could see that Danny had pushed off from the wall and was moving rapidly, urgently towards the exit, book discarded on the floor. Jordon raised his eyebrows just as his phone buzzed twice from his coat pocket. Something was happening.

 

Jordon hurriedly gripped Dylan’s arm and dragged him towards the centre of the room, searching for the bulky male that was Anthony Leonard.

 

He spotted him seated on a couch with his father and another wealthy businessman, conversing. Jorel hauled Dylan over and pushed him towards the men.

 

“Hurry and start talking to them. Go strengthen the Alvarez-Leonard ties!” He hissed. Dylan gave him an unhappy look before approaching and easing into their conversation. 

Jordon breathed a sigh and pulled his phone out.

 

There were four messages in total.

 

_George: Disarmed a sniper from east wing. Coordinates attached. Danny = checking the west wing & Jorel = west atrium. Stick close to Dylan._

_Danny: Heading to west wing. Nothing suspicious._

_Jorel: Took care of two assailants. 1 male 1 fe. Interrogating them_

_Jorel: Will update in a few._

 

Jordon frowned. Something was happening. Not one but _three_ armed people were circling around the gala. While they couldn’t be sure that these people were after Master Dylan, they ought to be as cautious as possible. A sniper having made his or her way up to the east wing of the gala venue was dangerous - security was supposed to have sealed that area off. How had the sniper have gotten past? Who was their target.

 

Jordon watched, worriedly, eyes training and sweeping around the room, on the hunt for suspicious behaviour.

 

Dylan was still chatting with Mr. Leonard and his son at the couches, easy and unaware.

 

While nobody was approaching them, it did not mean that Dylan was not under attack. A single sniper’s bullet could end his life. Or- Jordon glanced at the glass in Dylan’s hand - or the food and drink could be poisoned once he was not careful.

 

Jordon settled back, deciding that he’d simply have to lay in wait and watch, ensuring nothing of ill intent came near to Dylan.

 

-

 

George dragged the unconscious sniper to the darkened alley. Nobody was in sight - all the guests and their servants were in the gala. The building right next to him was thrumming with life, chatter and laughter pouring out, light spilling from the interior. A jazz band was playing swingy tunes. George ignored all of the sounds and focused on hauling the male towards Jorel’s car.

 

Jorel had parked the Mercedes Benz by the dark sidewalk. There were no street lamps so George squinted in the dim lighting - the only light radiating from the brightly-lit gala, carrying the body with him. Danny - who had been minding the car - hurried over, aiding him in his toiling. Together, they both loaded the unconscious body of the sniper into the boot of the car.

 

George and Danny’s phones both buzzed simultaneously once they had slammed the hood down. George fished out his device and Danny did the same.  
All of them, including Jordon, had received the same broadcast text from Jorel.

 

_Jorel: beat up the 2. They were hired to spy on Dyl. Dont know why they were ordered to do so. Just told to update snipers. There are other snipes - though these 2 dont know where._

 

George glanced up and studied Danny’s face. The other male was still reading, face twisted into concern, brows furrowed.

 

Danny eventually finished reading and looked up.

 

“Check the guy we got’s phone. He might have info. I’ll sweep the area once more.” George instructed before quickly stalking off back towards the building, rapidly keying a message in to the rest.

 

_George: Checking building 1x more. Danny looking 4 info. Jordon, keep ppl away from Alvrz._

 

The entrance to the east atrium was guarded. The building itself was silent and dark, having closed up for the night. The building next to it, or the Centre, was where the gala was being held. In contrast, it was lit up and shining in the blackness of the night like a beacon.

 

Though the entrance was guarded, the security guards here were not as attentive nor as numerous as the ones at the Centre. George quietly slipped past them and into the building, footsteps nothing but ghostly echoes.

 

The ceilings were high and the area, used to hold exhibitions, was spacious and empty. He could only hear his breaths and muffled footsteps. The carpeted floor gave him extra cover.

 

His eyes adjusting to the dim light, he kept close to the side of the building neighbouring the Centre where Dylan was, searching for signs of life. There were none, there were-

 

A heavy blow struck him on the side of his head and he spun around in shock, instincts going into full alarm. His training had readied him for such situations and he kicked into full-gear, spinning a kick in the direction of his assailant. At the same time, his finger found the _EMERGENCY_ button on his phone and pressed it, sending a crisis message to the others.

 

His foot connected and he heard a crunch and a loud curse.

 

His attacker was a large, bulky mass in the dark. He lunged at George, arms grappling and grabbing. George dodged nimbly and attempted to tackle the other male, who - likewise - sidestepped it. George swung a harsh punch into the attacker’s side and gritted his teeth when his assailant sent a painful blow to his stomach.

 

He reached and grabbed - and he was grappling his opponent. Both were locked in each others’ grasps, and both pummelling away hard, beating away at the backs, arms, face, anything of the other, trying to throw the other off.

 

George clawed the arms of his attacker and tore away from his grip-

 

But froze up when a current shot up his spine.

 

It took him a heartbeat to realise that he had been tasered.

 

He spasmed, hitting the ground, all muscles - even the joints in his jaw - locking up. He twitched, trembled and spasmed, vision going black and white. He was sure he was yelling but he couldn’t hear himself.

 

Then there was yelling, he could hear it - muffled, sounding far away. Whatever he knew, he at least was aware that the taser had been removed from contact with his body. Someone was hovering over him, smacking at his face. He stared up blearily.

 

Jordon was hanging over him, concerned. He was harshly tapping George’s face, making urgent sounds.

 

“Mm’ fine, mm’fine,” George groaned, attempting to sit up. His muscles were still shocked, limp. He slumped on the ground. Jordon made a sympathetic noise.

 

George swivelled his eyes around, scanning the room. Danny’s blond hair was easy to spot in the dark. He was hunched over the large figure, handcuffing him to a hook on the floor.

 

Jordon helped him up, dragging George to rest against a wide, marble pillar. George steadied his breathing, forcing himself to take even, deep breaths as he shut his eyes, counting to twenty. When he finally opened them again, the dancing stars had vanished. He lifted an arm experimentally. He was weak and shuddery but mobile. He climbed to his feet, despite Jordon’s protests.

 

The handcuffed man was blubbering and crying. George found it pathetic - a full-grown male with that much muscle mass, hired for such dangerous crimes, ought to have been mentally prepared for the worse-case scenarios. Instead, the thick-set man was bitching like a baby, begging Danny not to kill him.

 

George squinted. The moonlight glinted off Danny’s gun, trained at the man’s forehead.

 

Danny spoke in a slow, even tone - cool and threatening. George listened attentively as the man spilled on the assassination plan on Dylan’s life. Six of them were hired - three snipers, three spies - to observe and kill Dylan Alvarez due to a failed deal between the Alvarez name and another company. One spy was somewhere in the gala while one of the snipers was prowling and another was just ahead. George texted this information quickly to Jorel.

 

Together with Danny and Jordon, they raced towards the staircase leading towards the second floor of the atrium, racing against time to rid of the snipers that could end Dylan’s life.

 

-

 

“Jorel- hey!”

 

Jorel ignored Dylan’s protests and the curious stares that they were getting from the surrounding people. He urgently hauled his boss through the crowd, sticking close to him, basically ready to use himself as a human shield if needed.

 

“Jorel! Where’re we going? Jorel! Release me!”

 

They were almost out of the door when the first shot sounded. Jorel’s eyes blew open and he hurled himself over Dylan, covering his charge with his body. Pain bloomed in his shoulder when the bullet struck and he cursed.

 

The crowd fell momentarily silent before screaming filled the air. The guests began rushing out, clutching onto their purses and jewerllery as they dashed for the exit. Hysterical cries filled the air. People swarmed him and Dylan, stepping over - stepping _on_ him. Jorel snarled and dragged Dylan back up - but didn’t allow the male to stand fully, instead, instructing him to remain bent over as they fought their way through the river of a crowd.

 

Dylan was clearly shaken and shocked. Concern and fear was written all over his face. He allowed himself to be dragged towards the exit.

 

“Are you okay?” Dylan yelled over the cacophony of the crowd.

 

Jorel could feel warm, wet blood blooming across the back of his shirt. “Yeah!” He shouted back, pulling Dylan close to him, skin to skin, as he fought against the pummelling crowd.

 

The sniper must have seen him trying to get Dylan to leave and taken the panicked shot.

 

At least the crowd would give them some cover - if they weren’t stampeded on first.

 

Hollers, yells, frightened screams filled the air. Desperate calling. Security guards were desperately shouting for people to remain calm, trying to regain a semblance of order.

 

The doorway passed them and they swarmed out, flooding into the road outside the building.

 

That was when a second shot was fired.

 

-

 

Danny tackled the man.

 

The man had been crouched by the window, a rifle resting on a crate. They had been too late and the sniper had already taken one shot. While they weren’t sure whether he was successful or not in killing Dylan, they couldn’t take the chance of letting him fire a second shot.

 

The man thrashed, knee swinging up harshly and connecting with the ‘housekeeper’s’ stomach. Danny wheezed, flying off and landing on the ground hard.

 

The gunman was fast - shooting to his feet and whipping two semi-autos out of his holsters. The guns came up, blazing. Jordon and George dived for cover, their own guns coming into hand. Danny rolled off into safety.

 

Jordon had ducked behind a pillar. He whipped around it and fired one, two shots before ducking behind the marble once more. Both shots must have missed for the enemy gunman was still firing, bullets striking the floor and walls, chipping and peppering the surfaces.

 

From the corner of his eye, he could see George rounding his own cover - also a pillar - to fire at the attacker.

 

The spray of bullets shifted in direction a little - majority of the shrapnel striking the area where George was hiding. Jordon took it as a chance to duck around once more and fire five shots in the direction of the assailant.

 

He heard a loud curse and the shooting stopped. Loud footsteps rang out - indicating the fleeing enemy. Jordon bolted up, shooting after the sniper, gun trained in front of him. 

He could hear George hot on his heels and Danny calling that he would look for the last spy and assist Jorel.

 

The sniper was fast - he disappeared through a door and dashed up a winding flight of stairs. Jordon threw himself in hot pursuit, trying to keep up. The enemy was extremely quick and nimble, dangerously close to eluding them.

 

Jordon bounded up the stairs, chasing. They ran round, round up the spiral staircase, after the sniper. Jordon’s heart was thumping in his chest and adrenaline was roaring in his ears. He realised, despairingly, that with every second that passed, the man running away was putting slightly more and more distance between them. They would never catch up-

 

A shot blasted from behind him. A cry and a loud _thump_ sounded from above. It took half a second for Jordon to realise that George had taken a clean, clever shot at the enemy as he ran up the stairs, directly opposite (and a little above of) them.

 

The gunman was sprawled across the ground, blood pooling from his chest, deathly still.

 

George quickly checked his pulse before declaring him dead. They quickly armed themselves with the ammunition from the dead body and leapt away to assist Danny in the hunt for the last spy.

 

-

 

Jorel gasped.

 

The second bullet had lodged itself in his chest, burying into the flesh, going deep. Brilliant flashes of pain shot through him and his vision was blinded momentarily. He stumbled, shocked. Dylan was shouting, frightened and panicked.

 

Jorel knew he was falling. He knew. Yet he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop the blazing heat spreading from his chest to the rest of his body. He couldn’t stop the sudden loss of strength from his muscles, the sudden evaporation of his energy.

 

His fall was cushioned by Dylan who gripped onto him tightly, horrified. Jorel half-understood the events.

 

Dylan was clutching onto him: crouched over him and clinging onto him. Jorel’s bleary mind was screaming for him to _RUN! RUN FOR YOU FUCKING LIFE!_ but his mouth could only drop open and slur incomprehensibly.

 

With mortified realization, Jorel sensed the presence of another person hovering over them. Someone unfamiliar. Someone who reeked of malicious intent and cruelty.  
Jorel’s instincts went on to full-alarm. He struggled, gasping. The bolts of pain stopped him from jerking upright but he could flop to face the immediate threat.

 

A skinny man with a bandana tied tightly around his mouth was staring down at them. He had harsh, cruel eyes that laughed at their predicament. He held a Glock in one hand and a dagger in another.

 

Jorel’s eyes fixed on the Glock. With such close proximity, there was no way this guy would miss should he shoot them. And he would shoot them. The air around him screamed so.

 

The man was speaking to Dylan, slow, condescendingly. His voice was low and calm.

 

“Dylan Alvarez,” he was saying, “I don’t know how you did it but you somehow took out the entire unit dispatched to kill you.”

 

Dylan spluttered, aghast. He gripped Jorel’s rapidly-growing-cold hand tightly, squeezing. “W-what do you mean?” He stuttered.

 

The man laughed cruelly, almost amused.

 

“I mean, I’m the only one on radio contact now. The rest have suddenly gone AWOL from their task to kill you. Sorry about your impending death, by the way, but we need to get a nice little message across to your father. Nobody messes with the Jeffrey Holdings.”

 

He raised the Glock. Dylan swallowed, staring at the polished barrel aimed at his head.

 

“Night, night, now.”

 

The man’s fingers curled around the trigger.

 

“STOP!”

 

The man turned to look as Jordon and George dashed into the scene, both drawing their guns. He tutted, shaking his head, raising his voice to address the other two.

 

“Now, I’d put those down if I were you or I’ll drill a clean hole through this guy’s head.” He warned steadily, his hand not once trembling the slightest. The gun remained aimed straight for Dylan’s head.

 

Jordon and George slowed, guns in hand but not aimed.

 

“Drop them,” the bandana man instructed.

 

George and Jordon glanced at each other before they both dropped their weapons with a resounding clatters. Dylan could see the masked man _smile_ behind his bandana.

Dylan’s heart was beating rapidly. He was terrified - ready to shit himself. His life was on the line: one squeeze of the trigger by the man who was super intent on killing him and he was dead. Worse - Jorel was bleeding to death in his lap. His friend had gone deathly still and the blood spot on his shirt was growing at an alarming rate by the second. Dylan didn’t dare move to check Jorel’s pulse.

 

“Well, since we have an unfortunate situation here, I guess I’ll have to take hostages.” The man said easily, turning back to face Dylan. His eyes bore straight into the Meixcan’s. 

 

“Stand up,” he barked.

 

Dylan hesitated but the other man pulled back the hammer so he gingerly shifted Jorel off him and rose shakily, his legs puddles of jelly.

 

A loud shot rang out and Dylan flinched violently.

 

A second shot, barely seconds after the first boomed. Then a third. A fourth.

 

Dylan hadn’t realised that his eyes were squeezed shut until he had to peel them open. He watched in horror and confusion as the masked man swayed before collapsing into a puddle of blood, his Glock had clattered a few feet away, lying uselessly, smoking.

 

Danny was jogging up to them, a sniper rifle in his arms. The blond had first shot the masked attacker’s gun out of his hand before shooting the man himself.

 

Dylan had so many questions but there were far more urgent things to attend to.

 

“Call an ambulance! Jorel is dying!” He yelled. Jordon was already on it, speaking rapidly and urgently into his mobile phone. George dashed over, pressing Jorel’s sweaty palm to his ear, listening attentively. Dylan’s heart thumped away loudly in his ear as he stared at Jorel’s pale complexion. Would he survive the shots? What if it had punctured his heart? The bullet did drill cleanly into his chest.

 

Jordon hung up and came over, bending over Jorel’s body too. Together, George and Jordon administered some kind of first-aid to Jorel, using equipment stashed in their coats. Dylan could only watch in amazement.

 

There was nothing he could do but hover and stare. He had not been aware that Danny or George had come to the gala. He had not even known any of his servants possessed firearms. Hell, where the fuck did Danny learn to snipe? What the fuck was going on?

 

He pinched himself. Nope, it was not a dream.

 

He felt that he had a lot of learn about his servants/friends.

 

-

 

Jorel was placed in ICU before being transferred to a regular ward. The whole process took two weeks. The doctors assured that he would make a full recovery, not requiring much physio in order to recover. The bullet had just barely missed his heart, almost puncturing the lungs. God must have been with the man that day for he had survived.  
Jorel had fantastic scars to live the experience by.

 

Over the weeks, Dylan had sat down and talked to the rest. As it turned out, Danny was an ex-sniper himself. George and Jordon had been marines and Jorel, a fucking military doctor. It was surreal and scary. He had never known those sides of his friends.  
But they were still his friends - armed and dangerous or not.

 

“Fucking hell, Jorel. You’re just lying in bed for weeks and you’re still getting paid. This is so not fair,” Jordon complained jokingly, handing the chauffeur a mug of tea. The man laughed and accepted the mug, taking a long sip.

 

All five were gathered in Jorel’s room. He had been moved back into the Alvarez house where he was on bed rest for another week at least. Everyone was glad to have him back.

 

It certainly had been an exciting adventure. Dylan was glad that he had escaped with his life and could now definitely feel much safer in the hands of his trustable friends/servants/security. It was strange. But he somewhat liked it.

 

“So, what, Jordon? You don’t do anything on normal basis and get paid too - stop complaining,” George joked before getting a cushion flung at him. He dodged, laughing.

 

Dylan smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Rushed ending.


End file.
